Memories
by Hermione Pond
Summary: Ever since he saw that Captain America exhibit, nightmares have been plaguing the Winter Soldier. Nightmares of a man named Bucky and a scrawny kid named Steve. When he's taken in by a group called the Avengers, he struggles to deal with what those dreams mean, and with the crippling guilt that comes with regaining his memory.
1. Chapter 1

Laughing, Bucky opened the door to the little apartment and pulled the girl in after him. She giggled as he lifted a finger to his lips and mouthed,

pointing at the lump on one of the beds and cocking an eyebrow in his signature smirk.

The apartment was tiny: a bedroom, kitchen, and dining room all in one, with a door to the bathroom to the right. Decorated sparsely, the beds were more like cots than real beds, the furniture was limited to a rickety table, and the only image decorating the wall was a painting of a lighthouse by a stormy sea that Steve had chosen. But Bucky was used to it, and the girl didn't seem to mind. She bounced on her heels, looking around the room excitedly.

And then she screamed.

Bucky's first move was to quiet her. Steve had gotten in a fistfight that day and needed to sleep. But when his eyes fell where the girl's trembling finger was pointing, he too jerked back as the world spun out from beneath him.

The quilt covering Steve's sleeping form was soaked through with blood.

Instantly, Bucky was at his best friend's side, kneeling, pulling back the quilt to inspect the damage as uncontrollable fear rose in his chest. Lifeless blue eyes stared back at him.

While the world crumbled and spun and blackened around him and a scream threatened to burst out of his throat, Bucky dragged his eyes upwards to gaze at the figure that he knew was standing there.

The man with the metal arm looked back at him.

It was like this every night.

That man plagued his dreams: a scrawny blond kid with a narrow nose and sky blue eyes. And the other one, the taller one. Both so achingly familiar, like distant memories long put out of reach, both so far away. The blond one always died, in the dreams. And he was always the killer. He was always the one standing there, like some vengeful god, gazing over the dead body with no qualms, no guilt. He was always the one who had spilt that blood, who caused the despair of the other man, of Bucky. It was all his fault, and it happened every night.

The nightmares had started coming the night he ran. Put on a sweatshirt and a ball cap and gloves to cover his metal hand, and walked and walked until somehow he had ended up at a museum exhibit for a man called Captain America. The man whom he had tried to kill. The man who hadn't fought back. The man whose words... well, he was certain that it was those words that had started the dreams.

When the man had said that, an image clear as day, of a stick-thin boy in too-large clothes, his expression intent, with the same face as this Captain America, had flashed in front of his eyes, and with it a shock of emotion, unplaceable and startling. Both were gone as soon as they had come.

But nothing had been quite the same after that. For the first time in his life, he hadn't destroyed- he had saved. For the first time, he hadn't killed- he had dragged someone away from death.

This was what he knew, from the exhibit and the nightmares:

The scrawny boy- Steve, the nightmares called him- was Captain America, a genetically engineered super soldier who had been frozen for seventy years and only recently rescued.

His best friend was named James Buchanan Barnes. The dreams called him Bucky. He died during World War Two (whatever that was) by falling off a train.

That was all.

This particular nightmare was no different from the rest- they all followed the same vein- but he still woke breathing heavily, drenched with cold sweat, his hands in fists.

These days he had been sleeping wherever he could, away from people- today it was a wide alleyway that smelled of garbage; he was using sheets of cardboard as a sort of protection from the rain-sodden ground. This caused his whole body to ache, but this was another sensation that he was used to, and it didn't bother him. He could see that the sun was starting to rise, painting the sky in vibrant shades of orange and pink. He tilted his head up to look at it while he tried desperately to steady his pounding heart.

Then he heard the voice.

"Come on, I'll show you where you can find the best coffee in the city." The voice was female, the words said in a light and cheerful tone. The sound of footsteps stopped right at the mouth of the alleyway.

His heart jolting again, he scrambled backwards, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt down over his eyes, desperate not to be caught. In his haste, he hit his elbow against a metal trash can, producing a loud clang. The voice paused.

Another voice spoke up. "It's just a raccoon, Nat." This voice was male and... horrible. He heard this voice every night in his nightmares, and it flooded his body with ice.

"No, I thought I saw..." The first voice, Nat, trailed off, while he huddled, immobile, folding in on himself, wishing he could fold himself up forever and disappear. "I could've sworn-"

"Coffee," said Steve Rogers pointedly. "Best in the city."

"Right." The discomfort in Nat's voice was still clear, but she seemed to shake it off. "Anyway, this shop's been around since dinosaur times, it's almost as old as you are, Rogers."

"Okay, okay..."

The voices faded away.

He couldn't move.

He couldn't breathe.

But he couldn't stay here.

So he ran.


	2. Chapter 2

_It's the eye of the tiger, it's the thrill of the fight..._

Sam Wilson took off down the sidewalk, his feet hitting the pavement in time to the beat of the music. At this point, it wasn't so much that he wanted to be faster than Steve, because he had long since realized that such a goal was impossible, but since Steve was out getting coffee with Natasha, he thought that he might as well get ahead on the workout plan that he had assigned him mostly as a joke. Thankful that there was no one to breeze past him with a cocky grin and a snarky, "On your left," Sam quickly became lost in the music and his personal thoughts.

He was mostly thinking about getting a golden retriever. Somewhere in his bedroom there was a list of prospective names scribbled in pen on a scrap of notebook paper: Steve was near the top of the list, since Sam had always figured a golden retriever would be his friend's spirit animal. Dogs were, supposedly, great for relieving stress. Should be useful...

Sam was so deep in thought that he didn't notice the man barrelling towards him until it was too late. They crashed into each other headlong, sending Sam staggering backwards and trying to regain his balance. The other man, oddly enough, didn't seem at all affected.

"I'm so sorry," said Sam, concerned. "I didn't see you; are you okay?" He squinted- the man's eyes were shaded by a hood pulled low over his face, but something about the rest of his features seemed terribly familiar. "Do I know you?"

The man started to back up, as though he was afraid. A glint of sunlight against silver caught Sam's eye- his gaze was drawn to the man's left hand. Which was made of metal.

Realization hit him in a wave. "No way," was all he could say. At this sudden show of recognition, the man's- the Winter Soldier's- expression turned horrified, and he turned and sprinted in the opposite direction.

"Super soldiers," muttered Sam as though it were a curse word, and ran after him.

It soon became apparent, however, that the Winter Soldier was much, much faster than him, and there was little chance of ever catching up on foot. Sam ran full-speed until he reached the parking spot where he had left his car earlier that morning. Taking his keys out of his pocket, he practically dove into the driver's seat and, disobeying pretty much every driving law in the USA, slammed his foot on the gas pedal and drove off after the long-haired assassin in the hoodie.

He drove around the area for about fifteen minutes, tapping his fingers tersely against the steering wheel, before he gathered the sense to ask someone. Pulling up by a restaraunt, he rolled down the window. "Have you seen anyone run-?"

Sam didn't get to finish his question. A grumpy-looking old man in wire-rimmed glasses strode over and poked his head through the window. "Are you looking for a fella in a ratty NYU sweatshirt?"

Sam nodded.

"He came by here a coupla minutes ago. Flew, more like it." The man sniffed. "Upset my coffee. I had to buy another cup. It costs four-"

"Which way did he go?" interrupted Sam. The man pointed a knobbly finger irritably.

"Thanks," said Sam earnestly, and drove away, leaving the man looking both offended and mutinous. _Great, at this rate I'll not only miss the Winter Soldier, but everyone this side of the country will hate me by the end of the day._

He found the assassin dashing down a crowded sidewalk, dodging and weaving around people with enough skill that it didn't seem to slow him down much. His hood had fallen back, revealing shoulder-length unwashed hair and very blue eyes. Sam shouted at him through the still-open window, using the only Russian he knew. "Vashe litso vyglyadit smeshno!" According to Natasha, it meant, "How are you doing?", but it seemed to do the trick. The Winter Soldier slowed slightly and looked around for the speaker; when he saw Sam, he took off again. Sam rolled his eyes and sped up the car so that he was going at the same pace. "You know," he called, "I'm not using up energy doing this. I can drive around all day. You, though... you're going to get tired out eventually, super soldier powers or no. You might as well get in the car, I'm not gonna hurt you."

* * *

"Orange juice?" asked Sam, holding up the carton and a glass. When the man didn't reply, he sighed and poured a glass anyway. "Well, I'm having some. You can just sit there pouting all you like." He took a sip.

They were at Sam's house, in the kitchen. The Winter Soldier sat at the table, fiddling with a pencil and looking less like a brainwashed killing machine and more like a frightened child waiting outside the principal's office.

"Can you talk?" prompted Sam, knowing it sounded rude. The Winter Soldier's jaw clenched.

"Yes."

"Cool." Sam smiled encouragingly. The other man only scowled back, twisting the pencil in his hands.

"What are you going to do to me?" asked the Winter Soldier suddenly, fiercely.

"Wh- nothing!" Sam sounded horrified. "Nothing. We've just- we've beein looking for you for awhile. We want to help you. You've been hurt a lot, by a lot of people. No one deserves that."

"We." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah, we. My friend-" Sam broke off, unsure of what to say, but the Winter Soldier filled in for him, bitterly.

"Steve Rogers."

"Yeah."

Something flashed in the assassin's cold eyes- raw emotion. Fear? Anger? Guilt? But Sam wasn't sure. "He'll be really glad-"

 _Bringbringbring._

The Winter Soldier tensed, and Sam drew his cell phone out of his pocket. "It's just a phone," he said. "Someone's calling me." Realizing that this probably made very little sense to someone whose memory extended back only a few weeks, at the most, Sam held the phone up to his ear and mouthed, _I'll be with you in a bit._ "Hello?"

"Hi, I was wondering if I could drop by to pick up-" It was Steve. Sam hastened out of the kitchen and interrupted his friend.

"Steve," he said in a low, urgent voice. "I found him. I found Bucky Barnes."

Behind him, he heard a pencil clatter onto the floor.


End file.
